


all over the show

by neatos_cheetos



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Sneaky Oikawa, everyone is so dramatic, i love akaashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 22:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19450390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neatos_cheetos/pseuds/neatos_cheetos
Summary: “I still have blueprints to finish, and you, a kinesiology paper to write,” Akaashi says, seating himself at the table heavily, “despite having just entered one of the darkest eras in our timeline.”Koutarou flips his folded omelettes onto two dishes. “Don’t be dramatic.”





	all over the show

“Thanks, Bo.”

Koutarou glances at Kuroo sparingly and then returns to his work, gathering the ceramic shards in his hands and depositing them into a makeshift styrofoam dustpan. Kuroo’s sniffling. He’s an ugly crier, but then again, nothing is really ugly about Kuroo.

“We’re best friends, Kuroo,” he asserts.

Kuroo stares at him. Koutarou’s taking the brunt of the work because he can, and Kuroo’s bleeding from one hand, anyway. He stops remembering to be careful after things like this.

The last piece is found under the beat-up sofa, Koutarou sweeping it out with the stick end of a broom on his hands and knees. The shard clinks down between the spaces like a pinball in its machine, and the foam edges fold down with its weight. Koutarou sits silently in seiza, Kuroo looks so miserable like he could fall apart any second, and none of this is new at all.

“Guess I’ll go talk to my prof on Monday. After I’ve…” Kuroo wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. “You know.”

Yeah. That.

  
  
  
  


-

“RISE AND FUCKING SHINE,” Yaku’s shouting at the top of his tiny lungs, whipping his red track jacket against the floor and missing Koutarou’s head by probably an inch. “RISE, FUCKERS—”

“Kenma,” Kuroo groans from the opposite side of the room. “Why’d you let him in?”

“It’s twelve,” says Kenma, sounding like he’s eating the last of the cereal in the apartment.

Koutarou defends himself by burrowing deeper under his blanket, crowding against the wall in hopes that Yaku will lose interest in him and go for Kuroo instead. Twelve is too early to be up on a Saturday. Even Akaashi must be sleeping in.

Koutarou’s phone buzzes twice in a row against his ass. Akaashi is not sleeping in.

  
  


_ Kaashi [12:04]: _

Bokuto-san.

I thought you were coming over.

_ Me [12:05]: _

so did i

_ Kaashi [12:05]: _

...I see. Well, I’m free all day.

Once you’re through with Kuroo-san.

_ Me [12:06]: _

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

_ Kaashi [12:06]: _

♡

  
  


“KUROO,” Koutarou shouts scratchily. “‘KAASHI SENT ME A HEART.”

“His tolerance levels are truly off the fucking scale.” Kuroo sounds like he’s still asleep. “His tolerance levels are becoming detrimental to his ability to take meds effectively. Like… like overdosing on penicillin. His tolerance levels... he has to be prescribed something else, like tetracyclines. Yeah. Like that.”

“The zipper on my jacket is this close to your eyes, Tetsurou,” says Yaku, which, impressively, is the threat to set everything into motion.

Kenma retreats to a corner to get out of Kuroo’s way as Yaku chases him into the bathroom, whipping his clothes at him in equal parts grace and fury. Koutarou, fearing the same treatment, rolls off of his futon hastily. He jumps up, stretches, heads to the sink. Messily applies toothpaste. Remembers they’re out of cereal.

“Oh god. Is there food in the fridge?”

“Yeah, like eighty custard buns.” Koutarou stops brushing his teeth to look at Kuroo, who is pissing. Kuroo does not stop pissing. “What? Some people need to cope.”

“You’re ridiculous,” says Koutarou. He spits absentmindedly. Some of it lands on the mirror and he cups a handful of water and throws it at the stain to wash it away; it half-works. “S’that what you were doing all night?”

“He wouldn’t let me in the kitchen,” Kenma says with distaste. “What’s the point of making the whole apartment smell like burnt sugar if you’re not gonna let me eat it.”

Kuroo grunts. “You’re not supposed to be in the kitchen at two in the morning.”

“Oh, and you are?”

“I fucking slept through this?” Koutarou says incredulously.

“You slept through that time Kuro thought we were being robbed and knocked over the only plant we’ve ever owned.”

Koutarou can tell Yaku’s trying not to laugh at this because he’s staring very hard at a poster on the wall.

“Laugh it up,” says Kuroo, pulling his shorts up. “I’m the one eighty custard buns richer.”

Yaku does laugh, this time.

  
  
  
  


-

"I'm not going to lie," says Oikawa. "You do look like something ran you over with a zamboni, twice."

"Once more than usual?"

"Once more than usual."

Koutarou bites at his straw disinterestedly while Oikawa fixes Kuroo's forehead with a penetrative stare, and Kuroo relents, after reaching the end of his drink.

"Look," he sighs. He hasn’t bothered to cover his eyebags with makeup. "It's not that I don't trust you—"

"Oh, I  _ know  _ you don't trust me, Tetsu-chan," Oikawa interrupts. "But that I can live with. I  _ cannot  _ live with your moping ass falling into the studio twenty minutes after class begins and also having to fucking cover for your dumbass half the time, I mean come on. There are only so many times I can denounce to the prof that you stayed home due to complications with erectile dysfunction."

Koutarou chokes at the same time Kuroo makes a noise loud enough that people turn to stare.

"You—"

"Kidding." Oikawa frowns. "But seriously, Tetsu-chan, I mean, my matchmaking has never failed."

"Ha,” says Kuroo. “What if it does, though? I'll ruin your perfect streak."

"Or follow my advice, then," Koutarou says. "Become a white mom on a journey to self-discovery. Lay off that shit. Eat only lettuce for a week. Hang out with your best bro more."

"Sorry as I am to admit it, Bokuto's right. Why don’t you just… just try to focus on biochem and studio stuff right now. You’re at least one whole assignment behind—what happened to that one vase, anyway, I thought you were almost done with it?—and that brunette from your higher-levels is asking after you again. Are you fucking listening?"

"I… goddamn it, I’m twenty, Oikawa."

"I know, darling."

"I can handle myself."

"I know."

Koutarou stares at Kuroo, and knows Oikawa is about to win.

"You just call me sometime, Tetsu-chan," Oikawa says, delivering the blow. "I've got a very handsome friend I think you'll take a liking to."

  
  
  
  


-

_ "Fuck me, Koutarou, he's fucking massive! Like, he’s got maybe eight inches on me? Oh god, I think I messed up my name." _

"I'm sure you did," says Koutarou sympathetically, trapping his phone between his shoulder and cheek. He hisses as some hot oil bounces out of the pan and onto his skin. “I’m at ‘Kaashi’s, wanna come over? He'll be home in half an hour, probably.”

_ “Yeah, okay. Yeah.” _

Kuroo shows up to the door in a black dress shirt, panting like he ran here, and honestly looks like he’s never stopped playing volleyball since he was eighteen. It’s a little unfair, but mostly Koutarou’s just reminded of how easily Kuroo is painfully handsome no matter which way he looks at him.

"Hey," says Kuroo.

"Hi." Koutarou slaps his hands against his apron, nudging the front door closed with his foot. "So. Matsukawa, was it?"

Kuroo reddens. "God, yeah. Matsukawa."

As Koutarou takes the lid off of his takoyaki to resume his work, Kuroo launches into a fully-detailed dissertation on their date at some tiny, run-down cafe and Koutarou doesn't miss the way his eyes gleam, laughing as he recalls his own blunders from nervousness or self-consciousness, or stopping to inhale embarrassedly when he presumably conjures up the image of Matsukawa's face again; Koutarou doesn't miss the nervous twist of his fingers, and he tosses him a couple of Romanian tomatoes to chop up while he talks. Koutarou doesn't miss Kuroo's moments of happiness for the world, even as he can't help but fall in love over, and over, and over again, smiling secretly at the tomato-juiced cutting board and colouring the same ridiculous shade of red.

Kuroo falls in love so bodily. Koutarou hates him for it.

  
  
  
  


-

"Alright, you're being fucking pathetic," Konoha says to Koutarou on the gymnasium roof, which is very true, but unfair nonetheless. Koutarou's picking at one of the onigiri Akaashi gave him before he left his house, eating it grain by grain. But it's not like Konoha is doing much better (he'd had two baby carrots from a sandwich bag and then 'lost his appetite'), and Koutarou lets him know this by glaring at him.

"Don't give me that look, Kou." Konoha's trying to hide a blush now. "Like, yeah, me too, but at least I'm not being this damn obvious about it. Come on, man."

"Something's gotta be wrong with me, right?" Koutarou muses, like he's talking about the shape of the clouds. "I mean, I... I trust Oikawa. Just…”

"You're meeting Matsukawa on Friday, aren’t you? I like him, he's funny." Konoha shrugs, lying down on his back. "So try to reserve your fuckshit 'til then. I know you have this complex, or whatever, like nobody's gonna treat him right, but I just gotta let you know you're a piece of shit for feeding into it."

Koutarou chews slowly. "Yeah, I know."

  
  
  
  


-

Unsurprisingly, Matsukawa Issei is a fucking riot. And as huge as Kuroo had described, all sharp angles and curly hair spilling over his forehead. Sexy eyebrows. Three piercings on one ear. Peanut-butter baritone. He'd apparently played on Oikawa's team in high school, and it isn't hard to pick out the middle-blocker muscles whenever he gets up from his seat or reaches across the table, especially in that stupid-tight shirt of his.

All in all, Koutarou feels outmatched, and he  _ knows  _ he gets too defensive sometimes because Kuroo keeps kicking at his ankle.

Koutarou switches tactics halfway through and decides to be as much of himself as loudly as possible. Matsukawa raises his sexy eyebrows at him only once but then gets into it, laughs along, and Koutarou decides he's having fun, he likes this guy, he likes Kuroo, the way the orange light makes half his face glow like fireflies. He's laughing at something Matsukawa said, looking seven layers in love. Koutarou's staring.

"I'm gonna go get us more drinks," Matsukawa says suddenly, swiveling off his seat. "See the pink-haired kid?" He points to one of the bartenders, leaning on the counter and making eyes at the girl he's chatting to. "My roommate. Be right back."

"I'll go too." Koutarou surprises himself. What the hell is he trying to do? What does he want to say? Kuroo tries halfheartedly to hold him back but a), he's a little (a lot) tipsy, and b), "What, are you gonna make the big guy carry three drinks with two hands?"

Kuroo scrunches up his face, and Koutarou makes sure to flick his nose before turning away.

  
  
  
  


-

“Look, I know your type,” says Matsukawa, as soon as they’re out of earshot (a meter away from their haunt because  _ god  _ the pounding bass is enough to give Koutarou a headache).

Koutarou squints at his back, pushing through too-warm bodies. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Let’s see,” he says, counting off his fingers. “Someone whose best friend’s had his heart broken too many times. Someone who thinks said best friend can’t handle himself any more. Doesn’t really trust me because I’m kinda big and kinda hot.”  _ Oof.  _ Nailed it. 

Except… “Kinda?”

Matsukawa laughs heartily, swinging his arm around Koutarou’s neck to put them side by side, and continues before Koutarou can protest. “Wait, I got one more. You’re someone who’s maybe— _ maybe _ in love with his best friend. I dunno, can’t say for sure yet. Just a feeling, for now.”

It’s too casual.

“You’re good, aren’t you?” Koutarou mutters, shouldering him away gently. “Just… just treat Kuroo like he deserves and you won’t have any trouble with me.”

“I mean, I’m not the fucking devil,” Matsukawa says, releasing him to gesture at the pink-haired bartender. “I can make eggs. I know how to tie a tie forty-three ways, and there’s plenty where that came from.” He winks.

“Don’t flirt with me, that’s weird,” Koutarou says, but he’s laughing. Matsukawa manages to snatch a stool as soon as one guy leaves and Koutarou squishes into the space between him and the next patron.

“Makki,” he’s talking to the bartender now. “This kid is Kuroo’s. Bokuto, Hanamaki. Hanamaki, Bokuto.”

“Kuroo’s?” Hanamaki hums, already sliding a readied drink toward Matsukawa. It looks like lemonade. “Oh right, roosterhead. Mm.” He looks Koutarou over again. “You look like you’d enjoy what Mattsun’s having.”

“A cocktail?” Koutarou raises an eyebrow disbelievingly.

“Spicy,” Matsukawa says, giving his glass a small push in his direction. Koutarou obliges.

It’s… a lot. Thank hell it's him and not Kuroo, though. Kuroo can barely stand mustard. He’s got much more of a sweet tooth. One time Koutarou made him try mapo tofu and he started genuinely crying, and then he threw up. They were both supremely far from sober, to be fair.

“I can’t read your face right now,” says Matsukawa, which makes Koutarou feel a stupid surge of triumph.

“I like it, I think.” He licks his lips, handing the glass back to Matsukawa.

“Wanna know what’s in it?” Hanamaki says. He’s leaning on the counter now. He’s… making eyes at Koutarou. Silver-grey eyes, rainy.

“Not really,” Koutarou shrugs. Hanamaki looks minutely surprised. He’s pretty. Strawberry hair looks nice on him, a little too nice. “I like bourbon over a cocktail any day. Dark and sweet.”

“C’mon, that ain’t even a comparison,” Matsukawa chides, nudging him, but the glint in his eyes says that he knows exactly what Koutarou’s getting at. This guy is awful quick; no wonder Konoha likes him.

“I think that was probably the fastest I’ve ever been rejected in my life,” Hanamaki says bemusedly. “Sucks. You’re my type, Bokuto-kun.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Hanamaki looks like he’s on the precipice of laughter, now, shooting some sort of look toward his roommate, and Koutarou suddenly decides he’s had enough. “Can we, uh, get back to business now?”

“Right,” says Matsukawa, still grinning. “You’re the best friend. You know what he likes.”

Koutarou blinks. Well… Kuroo basically has the same types of bourbon or sake every time they’ve gone out; he also likes fruity things, with the occasional round of tequila shots when they’re just looking to get stupid drunk. He’s pickier than most, but only because he hates ordering drinks he doesn't already know. Anything sweet would probably be safe.

“Can you do an Irish cherry soda?"

"'Course I can." Hanamaki removes himself from the counter and starts swiping things off the shelves.

"Safe," Matsukawa comments quietly, like he's reading his mind. Koutarou winces. Safe.

  
  
  
  


-

Kuroo is gone when they return, and Nishinoya is in his spot with his Doc Martens kicked up on the table. Half the laces are undone. Nishinoya's staring at his phone.

"Noya?"

"Huh? Oh, Bokuto-san. And..."

"Matsukawa."

"Matsukawa-san. Was this your table? My bad." He looks a little disoriented putting his phone down on the seat next to him, but doesn't change his posture to let them through until Koutarou pushes at his legs lightly. He and Matsukawa set the drinks down, and Nishinoya's gaze follows the glasses curiously.

"They're for Kuroo," Koutarou says. "Have you seen him?"

"All of them?" Nishinoya's eyes widen comically. "Think he's dancing. With Kiyoko-san?"

"Where?"

Nishinoya points at a dark mass of people, pulsating under the sheen of jello-coloured lights. There's almost no way to tell anyone apart from each other, but of course Nishinoya has to be right when Koutarou spots a mess of half-gelled hair, swaying just slightly above the rest of the crowd. Shimizu is definitely in his arms, but they're not close enough to mean anything, even if Kuroo's gingerly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, even if he looks tired and beautiful and  _ right. _

“They’re not… you know.” Nishinoya says, looking at Koutarou meaningfully. “I mean, Kiyoko-san has a girlfriend.”

Matsukawa takes a seat opposite to them silently, sipping from the smallest glass. His spicy lemonade. Koutarou watches him watch Kuroo. There's something that feels close to despair, but not exactly.

  
  
  
  


-

Koutarou's giddy in the late hours, seeing Matsukawa spin and throw Kuroo around like it's natural. They're pressed close. Kiyoko’s left with her girlfriend and Nishinoya's fallen asleep across two seats and all the cherry soda is gone, which had given Koutarou a pinch of satisfaction until Matsukawa presented his something-whisky-sour and said to Kuroo,  _ you like mackerel, don't you? Ask for some of this to go with it next time. 'S good. _

What'd he even ask for? Salt-zer? Seltser? Selt... something like that. Lemon-lime. The bit of Irish cherry soda he'd stolen from the bottom of the glass has started to taste like medicine at the back of his throat.

Koutarou doesn't know if he's still conscious or just floating, empty chocolate rabbit melting very, very slowly under the strobe lights; he's lost track of Kuroo again. In the crowd. Something cool appears at the side of his face and he lifts a hand to feel it... soft, wet. A towel, maybe? He doesn’t remember putting his head down.

"Doing alright?"

He doesn't know that voice, does he? It's kind of melodious but the only person who sounds like an actual wind chime when he talks is Oikawa Tooru, and Oikawa Tooru can't talk that softly, anyway. Koutarou’s pretty sure. Cotton candy voice. Strawberry voice.

"Bokuto-kun?"

"Hm?"

"Can you open your eyes?"

Koutarou opens his eyes obediently though he'd imagined it would be a great effort not to drift away again immediately. He can't anyway with the lights from the dancefloor flooding in like miniature suns. This sucks. Everything sucks. Matsukawa's still dancing with Kuroo and it's past one and Koutarou can't remember how to Tone it Down.

"Remember me?" A hand moves his hair out of his forehead.

"Ohh, yeah," Koutarou says, willing himself not to stumble over his tongue. "Pretty bartender. Mmm… Makki."

"You're here with roosterhead, right?" Hanamaki takes a seat on the table, clearing the empty glasses to the side. "Are you two roommates? Don't wanna, like, impose or anything but I really think you should get a ride out soon."

"There's a third," Koutarou says, shooting up in his seat.

"What?"

"There's a third roommate. Kenma." He lifts a heavy arm to mark an approximation of Kenma's height and build in the air. "He's so cute. Almost broke Kuroo's arm once."

"Okay." Hanamaki bites his lip. "Then probably they're gonna go back to our place instead of yours."

Koutarou hates what Hanamaki’s saying. He hates that he's suddenly thinking so... so clearly. He knows exactly what's happening: Nishinoya's asleep because Tanaka had to leave early to get his kid sister from night school. Hanamaki's all the way over here because people are leaving the bar now and also Matsukawa is there, on the dancefloor, and Kuroo is there because Matsukawa is there, and Koutarou wants to go to sleep for a million years because he is full of alcohol and full of sadness. And Shimizu has a  _ girlfriend. _

"What makes you say that?" he says instead.

"Huh? I mean," Hanamaki runs a hand through his candy hair absently. He's frowning, almost tight-lipped. "I mean, look at them." Yep.

"You're exactly like me," Koutarou informs him, and closes his eyes again. "Thanks for the drinks. You're good at what you do."

"Yeah. Sure."

"You wanna stay over? Kenma won't mind."

"...Yeah."

Koutarou's phone is dead so Hanamaki lets him borrow his own to call Kenma to please come get them, and can Nishinoya and Hanamaki come too, and don't expect Kuroo home tonight, probably. Certainly. He chokes on the last bit but he manages. He manages.

  
  
  
  


-

Kuroo lives through his work and there is nothing in the world better than being his audience, wide-eyed child enraptured by how well professor Kuroo is beginning to fill his boots. Koutarou’s hearing more  _ and through this specific tri-grid placement is how his childhood fear manifests  _ and  _ this is what I mean when I chose these colours,  _ and less  _ this guy is full of shit, probably,  _ though ‘less’ is still supremely relative (thank god). And on his off days he’s all about medicine, and  _ something- _ dase, something-rings, viruses, long strings of organic structure that Kuroo has memorized for seemingly no reason. Koutarou knows that Kuroo tries hard not have off days because his painter-hands get so restless.

Matsukawa is a thing now. Koutarou does not want to associate him directly with Kuroo’s steadily-improving… whatever, all around, but predictably it’s hard to ignore the guy when he’s charmed even Kenma into liking him. Secretly he files that away as a minor betrayal, besides the major one he’d afflicted himself. Matsukawa, above all, makes Kuroo happy. Happy, happy.

Koutarou smacks plenty of volleyballs and runs with Konoha even though he’s not on the track team and decides that the only time he and Kuroo really sit down and talk will be when he’s got a seminar the next day and has to practice it to him, at him, and it’s easy, putting on his enthusiastic face when he doesn’t have to think so hard.

So he’s alright.

  
  
  
  


-

Except when he’s not, and he and Hanamaki pile into the Losers Club (Konoha’s not invited because two weeks in a sand-haired girl intercepts him at track and it’s the worst) and smoke a joint or drink or pass out and one time he wakes up at Akaashi’s house the next day, and then someone’s yelling his ear off. Akaashi’s yelling his ear off. Akaashi never yells but he’s doing it now.

“You’re being pathetic, Bokuto-san,” he’s saying, voice going a little hoarse, and Koutarou lets it sting because it’s the least he deserves after falling apart in front of someone as put-together as Akaashi. “I didn’t mean that.” But he did, and that’s okay.

“Hey, no, I am. ‘Kaashi. Thanks for bringing me… home.” Akaashi’s crying now, and god, Koutarou made him  _ cry _ . How fucking pathetic, really. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“I almost  _ hit  _ you,” Akaashi sniffles, “with my car. You… I can’t believe you tried to walk home by yourself and—and Hanamaki-san just  _ let  _ you? And you were in the middle of the s-street. I’m gonna…”

“It’s okay,” Koutarou says, ignoring his pounding headache and holding out his arms for Akaashi to crumple into. Hugs his head tight against his chest. “I’m okay, ‘Kaashi. It’s alright. It’s gonna be alright.”

“No,” Akaashi shakes his head into Koutarou’s shirt, “no, no, no.”

“What?”

“It’s not going to be alright,” he sobs.

“Why?”

“You and Kuroo-san,” Akaashi gulps, “you’re fighting, aren’t you?”

“No.” Koutarou looks out the window. It’s technically the truth.

Akaashi just hits him weakly and cries harder.

  
  
  
  


-

Koutarou sleeps in all of Sunday.

  
  
  
  


-

“How’s the angel doing?” Koutarou says when Akaashi appears next to the stove on Monday morning. The pan in his hands feels smaller than he’s used to. In fact, everything in Akaashi’s kitchen seems miniature, if extremely colour-coordinated, and also he keeps having to shake his hair out of his face for lack of hair gel this morning. Amazingly, Akaashi has never touched the stuff in his life.

“I still have blueprints to finish, and you, a kinesiology paper to write,” Akaashi says, seating himself at the table heavily, “despite having just entered one of the darkest eras in our timeline.”

Koutarou flips his folded omelettes onto two dishes. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not.”

“It’ll be  _ fine, _ ” Koutarou sings, sliding the dishes onto the table. He gives the slightly-deformed one to himself. “It’ll all work out.”

Akaashi stabs into his omelette; it bounces. Koutarou’s outdone himself. “You’re just saying that to appease me.”

“Is it working?”

“I...”

Koutarou’s phone starts ringing then, and he silences it quickly without looking but allows it to vibrate.

“Who is that?”

“Kuroo, probably.”

Akaashi squints at him. “Pick it up.”

“I can’t.”

“Pick it  _ up,  _ Bokuto-san.”

“No sir.” The phone stops vibrating.

“You’re not even trying,” Akaashi slaps the table, which makes Koutarou flinch, “to resolve your issues, huh? You’re just gonna let all of us, you’re gonna let Kenma suffer? Because you won’t talk to Kuroo-san?”

“‘Kaashi, it’s not that big—”

“No, it  _ is  _ that big of a deal,” Akaashi says, standing up. “What’s your problem? Why would you ever need to drink so much that you try to walk home in the middle of the fucking street? Huh?”

“Okay. Okay, please don’t cry again.” Koutarou frowns. “Don’t curse. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“You’ll think about it.”

“Look, ‘Kaashi…”

“I’m leaving first.” Akaashi replaces his chair noisily and swings his messenger bag onto his shoulder. “By the time we both get back home this afternoon you’d better be ready to start telling me what’s going on.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t make me call Kuroo-san.”

“Okay. Please don’t do that.”

“And I… I care so much about you, Bokuto-san. You know that, right?” Koutarou says nothing because he knows Akaashi’s on the verge of crying again, even at the door, even jamming his feet into his canvas shoes as violently as someone like Akaashi is capable of. He stands up again, touches the doorknob. Un-touches it. “Bokuto-san, give me a hug.”

“Okay.”

  
  
  
  


-

_ qT [Last Friday, 16:30]: _

bo hey you got smth after afternoon classes? where are you

_ [2] missed calls _

_ qT [Last Friday, 16:35]: _

ok i definitely saw you walking with matsu’s friend just now

_ [1] missed call _

_ qT [Last Friday, 16:39]: _

bo why aren’t you picking up

_ qT [Last Friday, 17:18]: _

i’m sorry if i fucked up or anything please talk to me

i’m scared

are we fighting

we never fight cmon

_ [3] missed calls _

_ qT [Last Friday, 23:37]: _

i love you okay

please talk to me i really don’t know what i did

did i do or say something stupid while i was drunk?

is it matsukawa did he do something to you

i promise i won’t be mad just

please answer your phone

or texts

_ [1] missed call _

_ qT [Last Friday, 23:42]: _

i’m so worried please lmk you’re safe at least

i think kenma wants to kill you or me

_ qT [Last Friday, 23:58]: _

good night

matsu says hanamaki told him he has you at theirs

come back on saturday okay

_ qT [Last Saturday, 09:05]: _

hey i’m going to a festival w matsu today, wanna appear so i can hug you?

it’s @  _ [address]  _ 3-8 pm

if you don’t arrive i’ll be sad

_ [1] missed call _

_ qT [Last Saturday, 17:27]: _

bo

please

:(

_ qT [Last Saturday, 22:40]: _

:((

love you

angelface told me you’re with him now and safe but won’t tell me anything else

okay at least come back tonight to collect your clothes

ah fuck i forgot half of angelface’s wardrobe is your stuff

still

:(

_ qT [Yesterday, 08:15]: _

good morning i love you

cmon not even matsu gets good morning texts

_ qT [Yesterday, 23:36]: _

good night i love you

_ qT [07:24]: _

good morning i miss you

_ [1] missed call _

  
  
  
  


-

_ murder machine (WILL bite) [16:31]: _

Don’t be fucking stupid

  
  
  
  


-

“Here’s the thing,” Koutarou says, hunched over on the couch. He’s staring at his dark reflection in Akaashi’s dead laptop. It’s the first thing he’s said to Akaashi all evening, the first coherent thought he’s had all day.

Akaashi glances up from his blueprint and then begins to roll it up, slowly. “Where’s the thing?”

“The thing is…” Koutarou clasps his hands, “wanna do something for me, ‘Kaashi?”

“I’d do anything for… I mean.” Akaashi coughs. “Sorry, I. Maybe. Depends.”

Koutarou raises an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Akaashi repeats, flushing. “That was your high-school setter speaking. Ignore him.”

“Aw, ‘Kaashi,” Koutarou starts. It’s fun to watch his nose scrunch up so severely. “Do you  _ liiiike  _ me?”

Akaashi’s reply is an indecipherable mumble.

“What?”

“I  _ used  _ to, okay? Let’s not talk about it.”

“What! That’s kind of amazing? Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Akaashi looks away. He’s very, very cute. Beautiful. But he’s… always been Koutarou’s precious underclassman, nothing more. 

“I didn’t know if you liked boys.” He clears his throat. “And I thought I would move on, eventually.”

“And… you did,” Koutarou guesses. He takes the rolled-up blueprint from Akaashi and bounces it gently on the edge of the laptop screen. “How? How did you…”

Akaashi stares at him for a couple of seconds and then inhales sharply, rubbing at his temple. “Ugh, fuck. I knew this was about Matsukawa-san.”

“Don’t fucking  _ curse, _ ” Koutarou says in anguish, smacking Akaashi’s arm and then collapsing backward onto the couch with his hands on his face.

“No.”

“‘Kaashi.” Koutarou frowns.

“ _ No.  _ I  _ will  _ fucking curse,” Akaashi says severely, shuffling away on his behind when Koutarou makes a swipe at him again. “I will do whatever I wish. And I will keep  _ fucking  _ doing whatever I wish until you and Kuroo-san make up, and then I might fucking consider stopping. Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck! Shit!”

_ Something _ in this awful situation must have become hysterically funny because suddenly Koutarou’s laughing and then Akaashi’s facade breaks and he’s laughing, too, dodging under Koutarou’s arm and over furniture, trying to avoid being smacked by his own rolled-up blueprint.

“Get back here! This is a no fucking cursing zone!”

“It’s  _ my  _ apartment!” Akaashi shrieks, which sends Koutarou into another peal of laughter. “I’m calling the police, Bokuto-san! Fuck you!”

“NO SAYING FUCK,” Koutarou screams, abandoning the blueprint to the kitchen counter when Akaashi escapes onto the balcony. There’s a scramble of noise as he’s stumbling over the raised step but then—silence, after that.

Soft shuffle of cars down below. Koutarou catches his breath, pushing the hair out of his eyes.

The air is sharper up on the sixteenth floor, and between the buildings lining the horizon there’s just the slightest purple-red hint that there might’ve been a gorgeous sunset, had he been paying attention a little earlier. Koutarou leans against the railing, looking down at the bright colours whizzing through the streets.

It’s only been four days without Kuroo, less than the week-long, relative-visiting “vacations” Koutarou’s family used to take him on when they were just kids, and Kuroo would write Koutarou long, chicken-scratch letters to take along with him. And when they got back the first thing Koutarou would do was call up Kuroo’s dad  _ ( _ — _ Kuroo-san can I please come over _ — _ Of course, Koutarou-chan, welcome back _ — _ )  _ and run barefooted into Kuroo’s room, kicking up the covers to hide himself before Kuroo got home from school, or tutoring, or the gym. Sometimes Kenma would already be there, playing games perched atop the boxy television, or sleeping, wherever he wanted. And even when Kuroo came back sweaty and exhausted he would still toss a couple of times to Koutarou, just for the sake of it. Just for Koutarou. And Koutarou would be satisfied, just with that, the way Kuroo never seemed to tire of him.

When had he stopped being satisfied? When had he gotten so selfish?

“Bokuto-san?”

Koutarou looks around urgently. “Yes?”

“I thought you might’ve forgotten about me,” Akaashi says, spilling out of one of the cardboard boxes stacked where the railing and wall meet. He pats off his clothes and re-stacks the upturned boxes. “What are you doing?”

“Are you completely over me, ‘Kaashi?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Are you,” Koutarou says, turning to him, “not interested in me anymore, for real? Because I’m about to ask you. To do something.”

  
  
  
  


-

“Stop laughing,” Koutarou says, trying and failing not to smile. 

It’s Saturday again. Koutarou had managed to get through the week worrying only about kinesiology and volleyball and how disgusting Konoha is starting to act around his new person of interest, and he’s hanging out with Akaashi in his rare hours of break, and it’s alright. He’d seen Hanamaki a couple of times; the guy’s probably still holding up his and Matsukawa’s place like a real soldier. Unlike Koutarou, who’s running, and running. He’s alright.

“I’m sorry. I can’t, I can’t.” Akaashi’s giggling into his napkin, and he’s being very cute, but not helpful at all.

“It wasn’t that funny.”

“No, it was.” Akaashi lifts his head to look at the silver call bell that Koutarou had grievously staked out on Rakuten and purchased for this specific occasion, and explodes into giggles once again. His face is turning alarmingly red. “You’re not supposed to say ‘Akaashi Keiji and I are now dating’ to the waiter, Bokuto-sa—Koutarou. Please don’t do that on an actual date. And don’t—I’m so sorry, but what in the  _ world  _ are you wearing—”

“Okay LISTEN we’re still in YOUR APARTMENT ‘KAASHI, I MEAN KEIJI, I DON’T CARE HOW I LOOK—”

  
  
  
  


-

“Why are you ordering for me?” Akaashi’s pressed his lips into a tight line and it looks like it might be the last line of defense before he’s full-blown laughing, once again.

“Alright, smartypants, which one of us has actually gone on a date before?”

“Me, I think,” Akaashi says. He covers his smile with a hand. “With Kenma. To the arcade. A couple of times, actually.”

“Right. Okay, then which one of us,” Koutarou says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “has  _ hooked up  _ before.”

“I’m not even twenty yet, Bokuto-san. That’s an unfair question. And besides, I don’t see how that’s even _relevant—_ ”

  
  
  
  


-

“We’re holding hands now.”

“Your hands are sweaty.”

“I’M NERVOUS. YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO POINT THAT OUT, ‘KAASHI.”

“WELL YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO POINT OUT THAT WE’RE HOLDING HAN—”

  
  
  
  


-

“You really are in love with him, aren’t you,” Akaashi sighs, stopping Koutarou in the middle of one of his stories. They’re having actual food now, something Koutarou slapped together with Akaashi’s tiny pans in twenty minutes.

Koutarou looks up at him, affronted. Why would he bring that up now? He was doing just fine, wasn’t he?

“Look, you’ve been going on about Kuroo-san for,” Akaashi looks at his watch, “ten minutes, now—you were telling me the hotel story—and also, you haven’t asked what kind of music I listen to yet, WHICH, I mean, THAT’S THE FIRST THING WE PUT ON THE LIST BOKUTO-SAN—”

“Okay, okay, okay, I get it. Damn, was I really—I didn’t even notice!” Koutarou frowns at the remains of his dinner. “Damn, that’s fucking disappointing. Sorry, ‘Kaashi.”

“So I don’t think this is going to work, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, sorry I put you through all of this for fucking nothing.”

“Oh, no, no,” Akaashi says, waving his chopsticks at him gracefully. “I’m glad to help you practice. Don’t curse. More importantly, though…” 

“What?”

“It’s time for  _ my  _ end of the deal.”

“Oh god!” Koutarou’s chopsticks clatter to the table. “I forgot about that, holy shit! No, no, we can keep trying! Please! I can’t face him ever again! Kenma might murder me!”

“Now  _ you’re  _ being dramatic.”

“I can just live here forever,” Koutarou says in full distress.

“Sorry, Bokuto-san, but you agreed to this.”

“I didn’t think it would actually come down to it,” Koutarou wails. “Have mercy…”

“I think I’ve had enough mercy,” Akaashi says, using a spoon to smack the forgotten call bell. He then smacks it a couple more times, just to make a point. Koutarou takes it away and pockets it before it makes him start laughing again.

“I can’t,” Koutarou repeats crossly, even though he has only once won an argument against Akaashi in his life, and that was after a taxing game, in a moment of rare vulnerability. But that’s probably besides the point. “You can’t make me.”

“I can guilt-trip you right now and you know it.”

“No you can’t.”

“I can.”

“No. Fuck you.”

Akaashi relaxes his face, clears his throat, and starts crying on the spot.

  
  
  
  


-

_ qT [01:20]: _

angelface sent me a pic of you on his balcony

i miss you

  
  
  
  


-

  
  


Koutarou is effectively shunned into finishing his kinesiology paper “before even thinking about the speech, Bokuto-san,” not that he’d wanted to ever think about that sort of thing in his lifetime, but it’s desperate times, now. According to Akaashi.

“I’ve taken courses on the dramatic arts, Bokuto-san, you forget.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to cry on demand.”

“I wasn’t aware the law concerned itself with such things.”

Koutarou flips Akaashi off noncommittally while slamming his laptop shut. He inhales and curls up on the cold floor, outlining a scratch on one of the floorboards with his finger.

“You’re done?” Akaashi says, throwing a cushion at his feet.

“Technically.”

“What does technically mean to you, Bokuto-san?"

"It means my eyes hurt."

"Have you formatted?”

“No.”

“Have you edited?”

“...No.”

“But you’re ‘done’?”

“Look, ‘Kaashi, you don’t understand. I hate editing—”

“Who do you think was your merciful editor in high school?" Akaashi smiles with his eyes. "I think I understand at least a little.”

The doorbell rings just then, and Koutarou scrambles to his feet, on alert. Akaashi closes his own laptop half-mast, blinking in the intercom's direction.

"Funny, wasn't expecting anyone," he says. Koutarou goes to hide behind the couch just in case whoever it is decides to materialize from the speaker into the apartment itself. "Hello?"

_ "Hi, Keicchi."  _ The familiar sugary drawl sends spikes of dread up Koutarou's neck.  _ "It's Oikawa. Do you have Koutarou-chan with you, dear?" _

"Do you need him for something?" Akaashi's tone turns suddenly masked.

_ "Yes I do, actually. Could you ask him to come down, please?" _

"What for?"

Silence, like Oikawa can't believe Akaashi's challenging him. Koutarou realizes with a jerk that he's been holding his breath.  _ "It's in his best interest,"  _ he says, finally, and it sounds like it's taking him a lot of effort to keep calm.  _ "I believe he's due for a very long lecture." _

"No he isn't," Akaashi says without a beat of hesitation, and Koutarou covers a gasp with his hands. "He's already gone through that with me. And besides, don't you think he's already beating himself up over it? I appreciate your concern, Oikawa-san, but I think that Bokuto-san just needs a little more time to work himself out."

More silence, the sound of staticy, muffled conversation on the other end. Koutarou thinks he hears someone mutter 'juniors' with disdain. Akaashi stands with his arms crossed by the intercom, but Koutarou can see the nervous tapping of fingers, the rocking on his heels.

Finally, he speaks again. _ "Alright Bokuto Koutarou, I know you're listening _ — _ " _ Koutarou jerks at the sound of his name—  _ "Yaku here is ready to kick your goddamn ass in, but I'm still open to discussion, if you're willing to give me a rundown of whatever the fuck is going on. You're too cruel for never answering our calls or texts. We're just fucking worried about you."  _ And then, the impossible—a faint sniffle. _ "You _ — _ I can't _ — _ only you can handle Tetsu-chan when he's sad like this. Don't be fucking selfish." _

Abruptly the feedback cuts off and the apartment is so awfully silent, and Koutarou doesn't know when his eyes began to water.

Akaashi comes to crouch beside him in the shadow of the couch.

"Oh god," Koutarou cries, clasping his hands together tightly and pressing them to his forehead. "Oh god, what am I going to do?"

  
  
  
  


-

"You've got to calm down, Bokuto-san. Think of it like—it's just like returning from a vacation, right? And you get to see your best friend again. How wonderful."

"Except this time I know he hates me."

"He doesn't hate you."

"Yes he fucking does," Koutarou says. Outside the car windows smears of colour fly by, rendering the world unprocessable. "And Yaku. And especially Kenma."

The thought of having to face Kuroo's disappointment and anger after having neglected him for so long is so unspeakably horrible that Koutarou feels physically sick, even though he'd practiced his speech to Akaashi enough times that he could recite it half-asleep. Koutarou has done an innumerable amount of stupid things in his life but there is nothing that even compares to the shame and outright fear that Koutarou is experiencing right now, in the confines of Akaashi's car, counting down the number of traffic lights left before they hit Kuroo's block.

"They don't hate you. They're worried about you, Oikawa-san even said so himself. They'll be so happy to have you back."

"All I do is cause trouble," Koutarou says, and this much is true, at least. He could never bear the thought of Kuroo being together with someone else, and it has always been this way, he realizes. He has always been this selfish, he has never, ever been satisfied with what he already has. But if saying it out loud makes it real, he feels all the better for doing so. "I hate myself, 'Kaashi. I hate how I treat my friends when I know they're just fucking looking out for me. I hate that I can't hate Matsukawa. I fucking hate that I always want more."

"Now," Akaashi says, and his grip tightens around the steering wheel. He's frowning very, very deeply. "Now, Bokuto-san—"

"I don't want to see Kuroo," he says quietly. "I don't want to make him unhappy."

Koutarou decides he needs to get out of the car effective immediately. He swallows and unlocks the door with a click on the passenger's side, and instantly feels the weight of Akaashi's hand on his leg.

"Don't you dare."

"Pull over and let me out. I think I'm gonna be sick."

"You can't," Akaashi says, and Koutarou's heart falls into his stomach when he realizes he's made Akaashi cry for the second time, lips trembling as he struggles to focus on the road. "You can't, I know you're going to run away if I let you out."

Koutarou reaches for the handle and Akaashi's grip on his leg gets tighter. There's a red light up ahead and Koutarou knows Akaashi knows what he's planning, and he's so, so tired, and he wants to be home, and he wants to see Kuroo, and he wants to lie down.

"Please. Please don't run away again, Bokuto-san. Please."

Koutarou pulls his hand back into his lap. Akaashi wipes his eyes with his free arm and lets out a surprised noise when a fat droplet of rain explodes across the windshield, and when they stop at the red light the trees and buildings around them blur into watery stained-glass, and the rain drums deafeningly against the car.

  
  
  


-

Kuroo manages to look good even when he's exhausted and miserable, so in a completely unexpected turn of events, Koutarou forgets every last word of what he'd wanted to say when Kuroo opens the door, and he's standing there and staring at him in his fish-patterned pajamas. Akaashi’s waiting downstairs and had confirmed with Kenma that he and Matsukawa were both out, so that Koutarou could focus on one disaster at a time, and maybe give his tear ducts a chance to replenish in between confrontations.

Kuroo looks good. Koutarou notes the mouthwatering smell of patisserie wafting past him from deep inside the apartment, and he's  _ missed  _ that. The hallway is lit with only one of the bulbs and Kuroo has flour on his cheek, shadows under his eyes. Koutarou's forgotten his speech entirely.

"Ah," Kuroo says, finally.

Koutarou doesn't have time to even think about responding before he's swept fast into an almost unbearably tight hug, and Kuroo's chin is digging into his shoulders, and Kuroo's hair is prickling his face, and Kuroo's arms are so, so tight around his middle, and Kuroo, and Kuroo, and Kuroo. Koutarou squeezes him back just once before he starts crying, ugly and loud, and then Kuroo starts crying, and just says "it's okay" and "I missed you" like a skipping record until the words feel numb in his ears, and they're still standing in the fucking doorway when Akaashi comes up to check on him, and then they're kneeling in the doorway by the time Kenma returns with groceries and it's a huge fucking mess. Koutarou cries a lot. Kenma clips his messy hair back with a bobby pin and leans down to hug his head before stepping past them, daintily, into the apartment.

"You guys, it's only been, like, three weeks," says Yaku apathetically when he joins the commotion as well, as if he hasn’t been counting the days. "You're all so dramatic."

He doesn't kick Koutarou even once. He does kick Kuroo, though, just on the grounds of him being Kuroo Tetsurou, and Koutarou has never been more fucking glad of an act of violence against his best friend, because it means  _ normal,  _ it means  _ you were gone but now you’re back and that’s what matters, even if it’s at the expense of Kuroo’s now probably-bruising thigh. _

  
  
  
  


_ - _

“I’ve been,” Kuroo says, when Koutarou’s finally calmed to a silent weeping, “baking pretty much obsessively while you were gone.” Then he laughs, watery and loud. Koutarou soaks the sound in.

Kuroo says ‘careful’ when Koutarou goes to open the fridge, but bags of pastries and breads come tumbling out and rolling around his feet anyway and Koutarou has  _ never  _ been this hungry.

  
  
  
  


-

“Didya have a nice vacation?” Matsukawa says. Hanamaki is standing next to him, close but not too close, pretending to inspect his phone. His bartender’s uniform is still on but it’s not like that’s ever kept him from certain gravities.

“You hypocrite,” Koutarou accuses. He’s had… many drinks. “You massive hypocrite.” 

Matsukawa narrows his eyes, then laughs. “I mean,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the mess of strobe lights, where Kuroo is twirling Shimizu’s girlfriend in circles. “I’ve been around Tetsurou enough to hear how he talks about you. I know an uncomfortable amount about you now, actually. Tooru’s been asking for blackmail details.”

“You… fucking… you’re on first-names now? Fucking—I hate you, you’re an idiot.” Koutarou corrects himself quickly. “Me too, though. We’re all idiots under god’s ridicule. Makki ‘specially. Konoha too. Don’t sell me out to Oikawa, that bastard. I don’t know anything.  _ You  _ on the other hand—”

“Let’s not point fingers.”

“I will  _ point,”  _ Koutarou says, turning his attention back to Matsukawa by poking at his shoulder, “fingers. I will  _ point  _ them. I can’t believe you were, like,  _ you might be in love with your best friend  _ when Bubblegum was right fucking there, and then you  _ stole  _ Kuroo—”

“I do not  _ steal,  _ kid, consider the fact that you were just very awful at— _ ” _

“You stole him from right here.” Koutarou jabs at his chest. He feels tears coming on. “You stole—”

“I’m gonna say it,” Hanamaki says.

Matsukawa looks like he’s suppressing a laugh. “Go ahead. He’ll recover.”

“I’m saying it.”

“Saying  _ what,”  _ Koutarou almost-roars. Nishinoya rolls over on the chairs the next table over. He’s still asleep.

“Alright,” Hanamaki says. He’s wearing an expression that Koutarou’s never seen before, that looks like a cross between constipation and absolute hysteria. “What if I told you—”

  
  
  
  


-

“I’m actually going to kill Oikawa. I will do it. Tomorrow in his own apartment. Please make sure Iwaizumi is away, I actually like him.”

“I will not do that, Bokuto-san.”

“You’re my  _ friend,  _ Akaashi, you’re supposed to  _ endorse  _ me—”

“I will not endorse murder. Case closed.” Akaashi swings the (smaller-than-average) meat tenderizer and Koutarou witnesses the exact second in which Akaashi’s expression shifts ever-so-slightly, betraying the fact that he may have just summoned more force than actually necessary, and that the poor call bell he’d been aiming for might soon be meeting its end.

The sound of metal meeting lesser metal is almost poetic, honestly.

_ “Oh. _ Oh shit.”

“Don’t curse,” Koutarou hisses, looking at the exploded metal parts and making absolutely no move to pick them up, ever.

“Hey, so what was that?” Kuroo calls from the kitchen. He’s brought a massive duffle bag-full of pastries to Akaashi’s apartment since even the forces of Kenma and Koutarou combined cannot keep up with the rate at which they are becoming less and less edible, and is in the process of stuffing them into Akashi’s fridge like some sort of reverse-robbery. “Did you lose another one of Angelface’s brain cells, bro?”

“Hey,” Koutarou frowns.

Kuroo laughs obnoxiously.

“So you’re not gonna tell him.” Akaashi tents his fingers.

“What happens between Oikawa and I from now on is none of his business.”

“I think it might be,” Akaashi leaves his seat to retrieve the dustpan, “some of his business, since they’re in the same studio, and everything. Imagine going to class one day and the prof announces that campus sweetheart Oikawa Tooru has been murdered by your boyfriend.”

“Kuroo’s  _ not  _ my—he isn’t—” Koutarou sputters, attempting to finish one thought, and eventually gives up. “We’re  _ not.” _

“What is the  _ point  _ then,” Akaashi hisses, sweeping the crumbs of metal into the dustpan. Koutarou is untimely reminded of Kuroo, all those months ago, small and unhappy. Maybe something has changed, or maybe it hasn’t.

“I just like him so much, ‘Kaashi!” he whispers. “I don’t know how to act! I just like him a lot!”

“Why don’t you start with telling him that, then?

“I can’t!”

“You know Kuroo-san’s under the impression that you two are dating now, right?”

“What?” Koutarou freezes. “No, that can’t be—I mean, I haven’t a-asked him yet—”

Akaashi raises his meat tenderizer threateningly. “Go. Now.”

“He’s busy.”

“Exam season is coming up,” Akaashi says. “This is the least busy he’s going to be for the next couple of weeks.”

Koutarou swears colourfully, and Akaashi smacks him. Deservedly.

  
  
  
  


...

“Disgusting,” Oikawa complains, legs thrown over Kuroo’s lap.

“Let us celebrate, you fucking hypocrite. Finals are over. Konoha’s finally been invited to a girl’s house. I get to call Bo ‘babe.’”

Koutarou flushes from head to toe. He hides his face in the crook of Kuroo’s arm, which makes Oikawa complain enthusiastically again, as if he and Iwaizumi haven’t been going on for years and years about the same thing; they’re all idiots, the lot of them.

Except for Matsukawa and Hanamaki, apparently, who are too clever for their own good. Too close, too. Making out, actually, in the kitchen.

“I mean, you’ve got to applaud my genius,” Oikawa says, switching tacts. “Everything went exactly as planned.”

“So you admit you’re a scheming asshole.”

“I admit I’m a very creative and beautiful matchmaker.”

“You made me make ‘Kaashi cry,” Koutarou hisses, which Oikawa raises his impeccable eyebrows at.

“The poor darling, putting up with your dramatics the whole time. I’ll treat him, don’t you worry.”

Koutarou throws a cushion at him. “I hate you.”

“I love you, Tooru,” Kuroo follows immediately, smiling so sweetly that Koutarou hesitates for a second before smacking him for betrayal, too.

Kuroo just leans down and kisses him, and Koutarou turns redder still.

“So, about Iwaizumi,” he elects to say, which unlocks a whole other slew of verbal abuse, but Koutarou can take it, folded into Kuroo’s warmth like this. Koutarou can manage.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> MY THANK YOUS  
> thank you to my early-work eyes: [@bitchishima](https://twitter.com/bitchishima), [@kaiizashi](https://twitter.com/kaiizashi), [zhizeno](https://twitter.com/zhizeno),  
> thank you to [@Inkfacefahz](https://twitter.com/Inkfacefahz) for helping me pull off the illusion that I know what I’m talking about when it comes to drinks,  
> thank you to [@itsaleois](https://twitter.com/itsaleois) for validating me and affirming that I should post this after all,  
> thank you to You, for making it this far <3 tell me what you think okay !!! if you catch a mistake or smth don’t hesitate to lmk. i love you


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